


philautia

by asterismal (asterisms)



Series: tumblr prompt fills [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Child Harry Potter, Child Tom Riddle, Gen, Halloween 1981, POV Voldemort (Harry Potter), Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25483093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: One morning, James and Lily Potter find an infant Tom Riddle on their doorstep and decide to raise him alongside their son.One year later, Peter Pettigrew betrays his friends to the Dark Lord, and Voldemort comes to secure his future.
Relationships: Tom Riddle & Voldemort
Series: tumblr prompt fills [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844239
Comments: 13
Kudos: 329





	philautia

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the following prompt on tumblr:
>
>> prompt (last one!): one morning, james potter opens the front door and finds an infant swaddled in a blanket staring silently at him. james stares back then turns around. "... LILY!" (on the infant's blanket: a markered-in "TOM" written without care.) (your choice: whether voldemort exists simultaneously with time-traveled-to-the-future!Tom)

At last. 

As Lord Voldemort stands before the seemingly inconsequential cottage in Godric’s Hollow, so like all the others to an unenlightened eye, he allows himself to take in the true weight of this moment. Months have passed since his loyal servant overheard the prophecy predicting his downfall—months filled with planning, with anticipation, with courting the treacherous Peter Pettigrew to his side. 

And now, the time to secure his future has come.

By morning light, the prophecy child will be dead.

He steps through the open gate, and as he approaches the house, he allows himself to smile; it is always a pleasure when his plans come to fruition. He sees no reason not to indulge in his victory, now that the wait is done—now that he is so close he can already hear the screaming, the stutter of a last breath, the unearthly quiet that follows.

In the years since the war truly began, he has grown numb to the violence, to the deaths he leaves in his wake. But this… This, he thinks, he will enjoy.

He draws his wand, prepares to break down the door.

It is only by chance that he looks to the window, stealing a glimpse into the life that will be so ruthlessly cut short tonight. It is only by chance that he sees not one child reaching for the lights that spill from James Potter’s wand, but two. 

He halts, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Do the Potters have two children? He has only ever heard of the one. 

Are they entertaining a guest tonight? Will he have more to contend with than he accounted for? Truly, it matters little. There is no real difference between killing three and killing more. And yet, there is a chance. That his carefully laid plans might be ruined by some unforeseen player… It is not to be borne. 

Perhaps this calls for further study.

He stays his hand for hours, cloaked in the darkness outside the Potter home, waiting.

Watching.

By all metrics, the Potters appear to be happy—far happier, he thinks, than they should be. They cannot possibly be unaware of the target upon their child; the wards alone prove their awareness of the threat. And yet. He narrows his eyes, a spell of his own creation allowing him to overhear the laughter, the babbling of children, the doting words of indulgent parents, that fill the Potter home.

He can admit to himself that he does not understand it.

This is no matter, of course. He has not yet met a force he cannot combat, an enemy he cannot defeat. This strange happiness will be no different.

One by one, the lights in the house go out.

The street falls quiet as children are ushered home.

With a careful touch, the wards to prevent intruders, to alert the Potters, fold aside. He opens the door. In all his life, he thinks he has never felt so much that he does not belong. The air is heavy here, or perhaps he is… uncomfortable. 

But this is a hesitation he cannot afford. 

The walls on either side are cluttered with signs of a life well lived, for all that it has been and will remain a short one. There are photos of the elder Potters from their Hogwarts days, familiar faces smiling back at him—faces he has only ever seen across a battlefield. There are photos of the children. 

On one, he recognizes the eyes that so often haunt Severus Snape when he thinks his lord is not watching.

On the other, he sees a face that is… familiar. It should not be familiar. 

He turns away, unwilling to torment himself with a past he has long since shed—a past he extinguished with his own hand. He climbs the stairs. He passes silently through the hall, ignoring the faint snores from a nearby bedroom as he finally finds the children in the room at the end of the hall.

From the doorway, they look as though they could be twins. Both dark haired. Both well-fed and clothed in the most ridiculous sets of pyjamas he’s ever seen. 

Both are sleeping soundly. 

He steps into the room; the quiet is broken with a whimper. The child on the right begins to fuss, and he walks closer as though he is in a trance. It wakes then, stares up at him with wide, dark eyes. 

He _knows_ these eyes. 

It reaches out to him, and he finds that he wants to reach back. So he does; he extends one hand, and as the child’s hand closes in a fist around his finger, he realises he’s holding his breath— _has been_ holding his breath, judging by the odd, lightheaded rush that overtakes him. 

He falls to his knees and tells himself this is as he intended.

The child kicks its feet, and its blanket shifts just enough to reveal the name embroidered upon it—the name that confirms what he already knows: _Tom_. 

“Impossible,” he says to himself, though he knows there is no such thing.

The child coos, gripping tighter and drawing his finger to its mouth, gnawing at his knuckle with small teeth. He feels as though he can barely breathe. 

It would be so easy, he knows, to take his hand away.

It would be easy to kill this child, and perhaps he should. 

It doesn’t belong here, after all. It doesn’t belong _anywhere_. Tom Riddle died long ago, his miserable existence ended at Lord Voldemort’s hand, and his memory vanquished with it. There is no place for this child in the world. Any scholar of time would agree; to exist in two places at once… Such an existence cannot be sustained for long.

And yet, this child is happy.

This child is loved—for love is what he has seen this night, he knows. 

How, then, could this child be Lord Voldemort? 

The answer is simple, though it does not come easy; it cannot be. It _will not be_ , and so perhaps the laws of time may be broken. Just this once.

Perhaps Tom Riddle may live here and never die. 

And perhaps… He turns his head, and he loses his breath again when he meets the prophecy child’s gaze. He did not notice it wake, and this unsettles him. With one child chewing happily on his finger and the other pinning him with a stare that is altogether too knowing for a creature so small, he decides.

No children will die by his hand tonight. 

Tom Riddle will live, and Harry Potter will live with him.

And if the prophecy child should one day grow to oppose him, well. Adult or child, there is no foe he cannot overcome. Lord Voldemort will surely kill him then.

**Author's Note:**

> “all friendly feelings for others are an extension of a man’s feelings for himself.”
> 
> perhaps the dark lord is vanquished slowly, starting here. i can foresee multiple paths this fic could take, but i won't be writing any more for it rn
> 
>   
> you can find me on tumblr at [being-luminous](https://being-luminous.tumblr.com)


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